“It’s a feat of creativity to compose poems that work as poems, in a book that works as sculpture, in a package that presents as a pipe-bomb wrapped in pink cotton candy.”—Brad Phillips review of Bunny Rogers’s book, Cunny Poem Vol. 1
““All flows,” said a beloved Greek. Heraclitus was called the crying philosopher, as if he spoke in desperation. But, why crying? I love what he says—it does not make me cry. Rather than interpret pante rhea as “nothing lasts,” I had always considered it a Western expression of the idea of Tao.”—Terence McKenna, True Hallucinations (1993)
With poems by Sophie Collins, Guillermo Ruiz de Loizaga, Vicki Tingle, Timothy Thornton, Carina Finn, Crispin Best, Marianne Morris, Francesca Lisette, Harry Burke, Gabby Bess, Bunny Rogers, Cassandra Gillig, Rachael Allen, Luna Miguel (translated by Jacob Steinberg), Jayinee Basu, and Sam Riviere.
The poet hugged me because I “got” it.
- from Marianne Morris, ‘BENEATH A PHRYGIAN SCALE’
Melissa Broder is a poet. In Scarecrone, her latest collection, she writes poems about right now, modern life, not about phones and cars and computers but the way we feel. The things we tell ourselves to survive, the way we frame our experiences so that we may live with them. When you finish…
“Even if people know that names aren’t reality,
They don’t see that reality itself has no root.
Name … reality … both are beside the point.
Find joy in the ever-shifting flow.”—Ryōkan (via muumuuhouse)
didn’t someone try to shoot kenneth koch? i mean not me. i love the part in “morning of the poem” where kenneth is gifted a bad painting like a bullet or something. like the receipt fr his own assassination. give all yr bad art to kenneth koch give him all yr broken vcrs. i love the thought of kenneth koch in distress. (everyone is reading along right? we’re on page 288? we’re sunburned w/ oyster knife in park?) i think this poem is about the way an image outlives a person. but also the way the image becomes the person? like they’re trapped inside the image & cant escape, some real actual horror shit. that’s the terror—how relentlessly poor our memories are, holding onto these single images of perfection that cause so much pain. i mean think abt all these tiny pictures we carry around of things to regret or mourn—they’re just a lot of faces. faces looking at us w/ love or disappointment or agony. we know the face & have so many feelings about its exact expressions. every time schuyler describes a cock it contains the heartbreak of like 10 faces. “ROTTED ROPE” COCK HAS SO MUCH HEARTBREAK schuyler’s cocks & schuyler’s flowers r indistinguishable. they’re moving u around the poem. they’re vehicles & people. they have expressions, like remembering someone’s special way of saying hello.
“morning of the poem” is like free air conditioning fr the soul & body. bc u read it in july. ur always so fragile in july, like there’s something almost chilling abt how cyclical & predictable the disappointment in july can be. people say there r certain moon things going on—astrological stuff. there is & there isn’t. it’s a lot of failures mounting. when it’s hot out people cant take it people dont want to love u like they have loved u or they just cant anymore. cos its so hot out! everything in this poem is jarring. reading it is a lot like alternating b/w losing & finding yr keys. which is so emotional for some reason—losing yr keys. it becomes the worst time to live. i think these rhythms r the rhythms of ppl r the rhhythms of weather & the predictability of walking around yr part of town & knowing where the sidewalk gets shitty & where the sun gets bad. once u have lived long enough u understand these cycles. but u never remember them until ur there again, in the shitty part of the road. it’s always surprising how cold it gets how bad it gets. how warm it gets or how some things take so long or no time at all. nothing ever makes a lot of sense. schuyler talks abt the lobes of yr brain taking photos for later in a haphazard way a sloppy mechanism fr it. i think in retrospect we play a kind of terrible matching game—the one where u flip up the cards to find the exact image yr holding—til we get to the scenario in our past that should have warned us of how bad things wld b now. how hot & how angry/yell-y. i love schuyler’s deja vu bc it’s just memory rlly like our own bad memory & denial god this poem theres so much gay catholic shit so many canoes & cigarettes so much color & a childhood i could never care abt but i do i caare abt it all every moment im on the gay catholic canoe smoking a cigarette (christmas in july)
“The capacity to be alone is the capacity to love. It may look paradoxical to you, but it is not. It is an existential truth: only those people who are capable of being alone are capable of love, of sharing, of going into the deepest core of the other person—without possessing the other, without becoming dependent on the other, without reducing the other to a thing, and without becoming addicted to the other.”—
“When I look at small things, I think I shall go on living: drops of rain, leather gloves shrunk by being wet…When I look at something too big, I want to die: the Diet Building, or a map of the world…”—Kōbō Abe, The Box Man (via odaro)
“The only way to go beyond work is through work. It is not that work itself is valuable; we surmount work by work. The real value of work lies in the strength of self-denial.”—Kōbō Abe, The Woman in the Dunes (via muumuuhouse)